


On properties of fractal patterns

by ForTheLoveOf



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Drift Side Effects, M/M, Movie: Pacific Rim (2013), Post-Drift (Pacific Rim), all I want to do is break your hearts and only half-put them back together again, featuring lots of dramatic touching, in which both of the boys get hurt in different ways and Hermann discovers some things about himself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-07-12 17:59:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16000415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForTheLoveOf/pseuds/ForTheLoveOf
Summary: Newton drifts with a Kaiju. Hermann compartmentalises.





	On properties of fractal patterns

**Author's Note:**

> _fractal  
>  noun (mathematics, physics)  
> 1\. an object whose constituent parts reflect the structure of the whole;  
> the parts that make up the whole object are themselves contained within it_

Hermann doesn't quite recall the moments between entering the lab and finding Newton in his arms. Seizing up around Hermann's hands. _All five-foot-six of him_. Of leather jackets and pin-stripe jeans and atrociously cheap hair gel. Of late-night arguments, too-early mornings, of contraband * cigarettes in those afternoons when Hermann would sneak out on the landing pad after mess call while Newton matched his steps to the staccato of Hermann's cane with ease because he's always _there, there, there_.

He doesn't know why he's brushing away the wet locks from Newton's face now, doesn't know the point of smoothing out the edges of grime and machine oil from his cheekbones. Only that the movements are usually meant to soothe, follow his words. He's running on a tired script, he realises and Newton's still shaking. Newton is- he's _still still still still_ and that has Hermann fumbling with a hand under his jaw, untrained digits trying for the soft jump of a heartbeat. Drawing a breath. Counting. All he can come back with is _fast_.

He thinks to undo Newton's collar. There's not enough air. There's far too much. His fingers tremble, struggle uselessly against the buttons. A stray drop of blood rolls down his knuckles halfway through that particular fight and he can feel something break in him.

"Hermann."

It is a coarse and whispered benediction but it manages to wake him all the same. He comes home to hands snaking up his arm, one set of fingers coiled around his wrist while the other climbs onto his shoulder, sinks sharp fangs there.

"You're choking me, dude."

Something catches itself low in Hermann's throat and he swallows on instinct. Keeps quiet. He parts the fingers circling Newton's neck, lets that precarious beat slip through them. They stay like that until the shallow rasping by his ear eases away, evens out some.

It's awkward, twisting his bad knee into the floor and Hermann hopes that the discomfort doesn't linger on his face when he turns to search Newton's. Arched brows and wild, unfocused eyes. A blood-shot iris. Dirt specks and days-old stubble, the usual suspects. And then there's the red running a dark line down his nose, his lips, the shirt itself. He prays to every god he knows Newton's all _there_.

There to bitterly contradict, antagonise. To constantly pester and lift cigarettes from the breast-pocket of Hermann’s coat and _perhaps even_ -

He feels legs scramble for purchase beside him and there's barely enough time to sling an arm around Newton's waist before he falters, skirts the floor.

"Gotta get-" he goes to stand and Hermann can sense his panic rising when he's forced to hold him down this time, already panting. He threads a hand into distressed cotton and _tugs_ until a pair of wide eyes find him.

"Alright," he tries, _alright_ and casts a glance about the room while he repeats it until he finally spots the back of his chair by the console, and it's something to work with, he decides. It's _something_.

"Just. Just wait," he pleads, presses some of his weight on Newton's shoulder, making it to his feet with a thin hiss. Making it to his side of the lab without his cane, failing to miss it, failing to notice Newton squirming. Turning only to catch the moment when the closest thing he has to a friend buckles gracelessly to the floor, half-way upright, braced over steel-wire power cables.

He finds that he doesn't remember stumbling back across the room then. Persuading Newton to trade the wiring for Hermann's own arms around him. The number of steps they sway together until he manages to stretch a hand towards the seat, help Newton in it. The strain that only seems to reach him once he finishes adjusting still-twitching limbs as best he can.

"Foolish man," he chides, uneasy and when he realises Newton is saying nothing back Hermann discovers that he misses having the luxury to hate him.

He looks a nightmare. Shuddering, coated in mire, and even though they had been staring down the end of the world for a few years now the sorry truth is that it never did occur to Hermann to prepare himself for _this_. _For terror manifest, for not making it out alive, for losing_ -

"Newton." His voice falters on the name and this time he thinks he might be begging. Not that it matters when the gaze he's trying to meet lands a thousand yards behind him. He feels his empty hands open and close and suddenly the deep red drying on Newton's lips is the most offensive sight Hermann's laid eyes on.

When he returns to himself he finds a pair of glasses in one hand, his own handkerchief in the other. He cannot tell how long his body has been moving on without him, frowns at the way the fabric leaves a wet trace on his fingers. He distantly recalls running it under the tap as he presses it against the corner of Newton's mouth. Soaking the blood there. Rubbing away the smears of dirt mixing with sweat.

His hands move to sweep back the curls sticking to Newton's forehead despite him. Unsteady fingers somehow willed into slow, careful brushes. He makes an earnest attempt to shape the strands into something approaching Newton's usual appearance. Something that might end up looking almost as obnoxious as he does.

He isn't sure why the thought makes his throat close. Ends up having to spend the next few seconds breathing past it. Working it open. It gives him a chance to notice the cane-grip cradled all this time in the crook of his own elbow, and he thinks to quiet the rising protests from his leg, shares his weight with it. He readjusts, leans a touch forward. Enough to slip Newton's glasses in his shirt-pocket with his free hand. Pausing there.

"I'm just going to," he motions, abandons the gesture part-way. When he isn't graced with a response he inches closer, folding the used fabric in his hands back to a square and tucking it carefully into the pocket of Newton's trousers. "In case you need to," he offers lamely at the vacant stare, lets the words drift. Clears his throat.

"Ought to get medical, I suppose."

He makes to move then and startles when Newton twists a trembling hand into his forearm. Lets a low hiss escape once the fingers there sink deeper.

"No." Constricting. As if it's costing him to say. "Pentecost."

"The Marshal," Hermann hears himself repeat, dumbly.

"He needs to know," Newton breathes, straining and all Hermann can do is remain grateful for the steady pressure on his arm. The way it forces him to feel the heady rush of both their heartbeats at the contact. _Grateful_ for the dark indents Newton's digits are probably leaving there already.

"Alright," he nods. _Alright_ , making for the sink once Newton lets his fingers loosen, fall away. _Alright_ as he reaches for one of the few clean glasses there, fills it with water. _Alright_ and he catches up with himself the second he's pressing the tumbler into Newton's hands, halting.

"Here," Hermann offers, unsure. "Have some of this."

"Needs to know," Newton repeats into the distance, curling a palm around the glass. "Needs to" and Hermann's eyes linger on the smudges Newton's hand tracks through the clear surface. He spares a moment to wonder if they'll match the bruises on his skin, later. Hates himself for it.

"Alright," Hermann whispers out. A well-worn prayer. He steadies a breath, grips his cane tight. Gives Newton one more worried look before rushing away into the corridor, every last bit of him burning.

**Author's Note:**

> [*] Cigarettes have never been part of the official PPDC provisions. Hermann occasionally engages in _technically_ prohibited activity by trading some of his allotted rations for various off-brand packs of dubious origin. No two ever seem to be alike, either in substance or appearance. Newton insists on sampling each one, ostensibly for 'research'. Hermann chooses to indulge him in this particular matter.
> 
> this work was brought to you by me obsessing over pacific rim & the following meta posts: ([x](http://so-i-did-this-thing.tumblr.com/post/64018554344)) ([x](http://journeydownthequeer.tumblr.com/post/178036366276)) ([x](http://thecindercrow.tumblr.com/post/63330628255))


End file.
